


Ideas of being a Person

by Lyzelah



Series: Bucky Barnes and The Winter Soldier [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyzelah/pseuds/Lyzelah
Summary: Under the Thumb of Hydra, The Winter Soldier wonders what it would be like to be free.This is the first in a Series, Read at your own discretion.***The Series will have happier endings, I promise.***
Series: Bucky Barnes and The Winter Soldier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820992
Kudos: 7





	Ideas of being a Person

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta-ed (no one really wants to read things before I post them). Let me know what you think.

He had been under Hydra’s control for a very long time. So much pain. They used torture to keep him down, broken, controlled. He was not a person. He was an Object. In his mind, he entertained the Idea of freedom. Of being a person. Of having a name.

It was the simplest, most dangerous Idea but the mere thought brought him the greatest amount of pleasure. It slithered through his body, sinking its claws into the base of his skull, whispering promises into the brain he didn’t own. It wouldn’t be washed away by the fires of pain, nor the coated freeze of ice. It stayed with him, through ages of torture and sleep.

At its words, he started to entertain thoughts of speaking to someone without having to worry about being struck; of sitting lazily in comfortable chairs; sleeping in beds large enough for four people, piled high with warm blankets and pillows; eating food that was both warm and solid, like the food he’d seen  _ actual humans _ eat.

_ You are not human. You are a tool. You are below humans. _

He flinched at the words, ignoring the metal plates grating against each other as he clenched his fist in irritation. The tech working on his arm flinched slightly, but once he relaxed, they continued working on the arm.

His mind drifted back. Back to a previous time out of the cold. 

It was Springtime, in the city. Peaceful, or as peaceful as any city could be. He had followed the Target through town, silently stalking his prey as intended. It was supposed to be an assassination, no one was supposed to connect his face with the blow.

And It was on this mission when He’d committed his first act of rebellion against Hydra. He had acquired food outside of what Hydra had provided. He waited until the man seemed ready to break down in a public display of emotional turmoil and he had bought two hot dogs.

“Come on, you look like you could use a bite to eat.” His voice lilted in a way that was unfamiliar to him, but seemed to comfort others around him.

The man accepted the Hot dog, “Thank you, Did you… want to take a seat??”

It wasn’t an Order, and this man wasn’t his Handler, but  _ He _ sat anyway. Just a kind soul, not an Assassin, Not A tool.

The two took bites in tandem and, “Couldn’t help but notice you seemed a little out of sorts, figured a full belly might help.”

The Target Smiled slightly, “I suppose. I hope so. Trying to turn over a new leaf. What about you?”

“Oh, Just trying to get by, day to day, hour to hour.” The Assassin readily admitted, “Tough world.”

Another two bites, chewed, swallowed. The Assassin felt warmth pool in his stomach as the warm, sweet juices coated his tongue. He focused on that for a moment before turning back to his Target, who had finished his hotdog with Vigor.

“That it is, Tougher than it should be,” The other man said, licking his fingers, “That was good, Weird aftertaste though. What kind of weird Mustard did it have?”

“Oh I’m not sure.” The Assassin said quietly, finishing his own hot dog, relishing as it pooled in his stomach, “Shouldn’t matter though, not long now.”

The assassin watched as the man turned to him more fully, his body shaking. Then, he fell against the railing and took a deep laboured breath and tried to speak. No noise came out, instead, it took thirty seconds for his body to stop moving entirely, and the Assassin reached over to check his pulse. Nothing.

When his Handlers found out, He had been slightly afraid of being erased, but they had come to the Idea that it was the best option for elimination.

His Handlers accepted that explanation, though He didn’t take a chance like that again. He treasured it, that one memory, of eating a “hot dog” a long roll of hot meat wrapped in toasted bread with various colors and sauces that He wouldn’t be able to name.

He would turn his attention back to it on missions, during maintenance, like now.

Once Maintenance was complete, he was placed in a stationary Cell, waiting for another Mission. He Mulled it over, ran his fingers over his stomach to inspire some kind of reaction to bring back the flavor, the warmth, the feeling of hope and joy.   
Then he was sent out on another mission, and another. And Another. Rapid fire one after the other. They didn’t keep him long, these missions. In a desperate act to make his Handlers forget about the Hot dog, he finished his missions perfectly. Then, Eventually, he was allowed to rest.

The Bed of Ice was scary, but it was home, more welcome than anything else. He slept, drifting on stray thoughts and Ice.

It returned, the creature that curled around his body, his spine, his brain, It whispered promises of Person-hood, of freedom. It would call him “Man” and “Love” like he’d heard other humans call each other. It would praise him, tell him he was smart, kind, a good friend.

It would hook his interest with interactions. Ideas of food, shared between a group, of someone, another human, holding his hand. 

Sometimes It would be quiet, patiently waiting for him to speak, for him to say words. That even if he didn’t want to say words, the words that he did want to share were important. That he was important.

His time in the Bed of Ice was almost warm in comparison to the outside. It built him up a fantasy world where he was a person. He was a human. 

He longed for it, craved it. He tried to make another person in his mind, but couldn’t. His loneliness was painful. He wanted to be a person, but not if no one could see. Not if no one was there to witness him being a person.

Then The thought of being more than a tool came, and went.

The thought of being a Human came and went.

The thought of being a person came…

And it went.

And then,He woke, bleary eyed, as the doctor’s shown light into his eyes, loudly shouting in Russian, “ _...You back with Us, Number 32. Can you hear me? _ ”

He turned his head and reached for the bucket the lab assistant had. Yanking it from their hands he proceeded to Vomit into it, emptying the full contents of his stomach. It hurt, but it cleared his head. Once he was done the Lab tech traded him the bucket for a water bottle and a towel.

He rinsed his mouth and spat it into the bucket as well, before drinking deeply and wiping his mouth with the towel.

Accepting the protein shake, he filled his stomach, Drinking and Handing it back without complaint. His stomach still hurt.

“ _ Ready to Comply _ .” He said in Russian. 

The Handler stepped forward from behind the Doctor,  _ “We have a soldier in a cell down the hall. A Defect, and a traitor.” _ The man pressed the Pistol into his hand, “ _ You will erase it, and then you will get a new mission. One the Defect could not complete.” _

He stood slowly, but drew himself up to his full height, showing no weakness. Weak tools were not tools worth keeping.

“ _ Show me.” _

The Handler led the way. Waiting outside the door as he entered. The room was solid concrete, stained and splattered. A kill room. An elimination room. It was a room where they would put him to get him to comply, or prepare him to be erased.

He looked at the soldier in cuffs kneeling on the ground. Chain wound tight around his biceps and neck.

He looked at the man and saw himself, or at least, saw a version of himself. A Soldier who forgot that he wasn’t human. A Winter Soldier who had Ideas of being more than a Tool.

An Asset, with the same training, the same beginning, and the same face and DNA as him, the same missing arm and the same hope.

‘I’m sorry.’ he mouthed.

The other man bent his head in inclination.

A squeeze of the trigger, a single shot, the bullet that went straight through the brain.

He was dead, and still he lived. A Winter Soldier only lived so long as they were useful. And loyal.

And he was ready to be Useful.

And Loyal.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, This series is kind of special to me, though it may not be too original. I hope you follow me into this rabbit hole of my own creation.


End file.
